


a cook makes, a thief takes

by tanyart



Category: Destiny (Video Games)
Genre: Cooking, M/M, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-26
Updated: 2019-06-26
Packaged: 2020-05-20 00:19:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19366510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tanyart/pseuds/tanyart
Summary: Drifter cooks for the Renegade.





	a cook makes, a thief takes

**Author's Note:**

> Written for ShinDrift Week - Day 3: Warm/Cold.

The Renegade had a habit of dropping in whenever Drifter was in the middle of something important. It was a toss up whether the timing was good or bad, but right now seemed like one of those strange in-between moments where Drifter felt more caught off guard than anything.

The pot of stew bubbled over Drifter’s makeshift burner. His work table was covered with roughly chopped vegetables in piles, next to the meat sizzling in a separate pan. Drifter’s shoulders stiffened, despite the fact that this might’ve been the most innocent thing the Renegade’s ever caught him doing.

Funnily enough, the Renegade seemed just as surprised, hanging back at the alley’s closed gate like he wasn’t sure what to do for once. His line of sight was on the food, reflecting from his helmet’s visor.

Talk about having a weird standoff. Drifter looked at his unfinished dish then back up at the Renegade. It was probably just his imagination, a product of the dim lighting and the Renegade’s ragged state, but the Renegade cut a lonesome figure in the night, standing outside like that.

“Smell’s good. Whatcha cookin’?” the Renegade asked, a little on the side of mocking.

Drifter knew he was expecting to be shooed away. Maybe the Renegade was right to assume so. Drifter wasn’t inclined on sharing his food but at the moment he was also inclined to be contrary.

He walked to the gate, unlocking it and lifting it up some.

“It’s stew,” Drifter replied shortly. For no other reason than it was a cold night, and he was almost always cold, and stew was an easy fix.

The Renegade stared at him, but at an impatient gesture, he scooted inside without another word and Drifter kicked the gate closed.

It was a bad time to have second thoughts, now that the gate was shut. Even so, the worries Drifter clung on to were surprisingly mundane; money, provisions, and not so much having the Renegade _there_.

Glimmer was rolling in at a steady rate thanks to Gambit. Drifter didn’t have to worry much about rationing. The City was stocked with food — a restaurant on every corner, a store on every street. But old habits die hard, and Drifter hadn’t survived this long by letting them go.

But he couldn’t remember the last time he willingly shared a cooked meal with someone, just ‘cause.

Besides, it was just one meal. Drifter returned to his tiny stove, picked up a pair of chopsticks, and pointed them towards the low table on the ground. “It’ll be a minute. Sit.”

To his surprise, the Renegade sat his ass right down, using one of the scraps of floor matting as a cushion. Drifter paused, chopsticks hovering, before he went right back to flipping vegetables into the pot.

They didn’t say much while Drifter threw in the last finishing touches. The Renegade watched him, though, quiet like he wasn’t there at all. Drifter wasn’t sure how he felt about an audience, but he was confident enough in the kitchen ( _of sorts_ ) to not be bothered by it. What was the Renegade gonna say anyway? One smart aleck word from that helmet and he’d be out of a hot meal.

Drifter stopped stirring. The stew was as good as it was going to get. No sense in fussing over it just because he had an uninvited guest. For some reason, the Renegade didn’t strike him as the type to indulge much in home cooked food. Must’ve been the ruthless, workaholic one-track tendencies the Renegade showed.

“Well, it ain’t much, but it’s ready,” Drifter said, mostly talking to the pot. From the corner of his eye he saw the Renegade straighten, like he was eager. Or hungry. Come to think of it, he’d never seen the Renegade eat or give any indication that he ever got hungry. Usually it was Drifter doing the complaining.

He carried the stew over without ceremony. Normally he’d eat out of the pot — which held enough for four servings, eight if rationed, a rough two week’s worth, less if no water — but he supposed he’d have to bear it and do dishes just this once.

Drifter nudged an empty bowl the Renegade’s way, but the Renegade shook his head, stopping him.

“Hold up, hold up. I got my own thing.”

At first, Drifter thought maybe the Renegade would flip a part of his helmet up and eat that way, but it turned out the Renegade didn’t even risk that much. After a quick wave for an item transmat, he held out a thermos and Drifter had to tamp down a flash of disappointment.

“What, don’t got your own bowl?”

The thermos in the Renegade’s hand dipped. “I’m havin’ it to-go,” he said in a tone that didn’t offer room for argument.

Nothing to be done for it, which was just as well. Drifter didn’t think he wanted the Renegade to stick around anyway. He topped him off with the stew, half spooning and half pouring it in.

“Looks good,” the Renegade said, and he sounded surprisingly sincere.

And Drifter didn’t know how to feel about the Renegade carefully sealing it shut, like he was handling something delicate — well, the stew _was_ hot, and prone to spilling, but still. The Renegade didn’t transmat it away either, just kept the warm thermos in his hands, fingers playing along the clasps and ridges.

“Thanks,” the Renegade said, so casually that Drifter felt a little deflated.

Stupid. He wasn’t trying to impress anyone, but he did want a little appreciation for the food. Guardians these days didn’t know what it was like to _starve_.

He grunted, setting the pot down on the table. “Lunch is on you next time.”

“Don’t trust me to cook?”

“Can you?” Drifter asked, sitting down across from him.

“Nothin’ really done and proper like this.” the Renegade said, nodding towards the stew. “Wouldn’t be much of a fair trade.”

Drifter opened his mouth to scoff. Proper food? There was that ramen place outside his alley, which was a whole lot better than Drifter’s hodgepodge in a pot. The Renegade could’ve gone _there_ instead for proper.

Drifter started eating, suddenly uncomfortable. Must’ve been hungry enough to have his brain addled by the thought of feeling sorry for the Renegade.

“So,” he began around a mouthful, “You here just to steal my food, or is there something else you want?”

The Renegade made a noise, part sigh, part snort. “Matter of fact, I do. You ever thought about setting up on Titan?”

The Renegade leaned forward to talk. And Drifter edged closer to listen.

 

* * *

 

It was coincidental timing, those days when the Renegade would show up at Drifter’s doorstep while he was in the middle of cooking. They both took it in stride. In Drifter’s mind, he _had_ to take it in stride or else he'd drive himself nuts over the idea of having a regular dinner guest.

The Renegade never did end up eating anything Drifter ever made. Not in front of Drifter at any rate. Never snuck a taste or took off his helmet, but he seemed glad for the meals and was content to watch Drifter cook if he happened to swing by early, and didn’t mind Drifter eating in front of him if he came late.

Seeing as it was only polite, Drifter would offer, and the Renegade would have his thermos out. It was always stew, or soup.

Then the Renegade would keep the thermos in his hands the whole time he hung around Drifter, like he had cold fingers or something.

Drifter never asked.

 

* * *

 

 Nowadays, any time was bad timing. Drifter held up the knife, not caring if it looked like a threat. Or a joke, considering it was just a kitchen knife.

“Shin,” he said with a twist to his mouth. The name stuck in his throat and came out bitter.

“Been a while,” Shin replied, like he was agreeing to something Drifter didn’t say.

While that much was true, Drifter would’ve preferred it to have been _much_ longer than a while. Sure, he and Shin still had their terse run-ins every now and then, but this was the first time Shin Malphur popped back up while Drifter was in the middle of cooking. Not since his parting letter.

Drifter didn’t much like being reminded of his time spent with the Renegade in their quieter moments. He felt the sting of humiliation ten times worse like this and it still unnerved him to see Shin face to face.

The meat stock bubbled, burner buzzing with poorly generated electricity. Figures it’d be stew again. The Renegade always seemed to show up on stew nights, when the temperature dipped low enough that Drifter usually had a craving for it.

Shin stared at the pot then at Drifter. He let himself further in before Drifter could say _no_.

“Let me help,” Shin said and transmatted a knife into one hand.

Drifter almost had a fit right then and there. Out of pure panic and reflex, he grabbed Shin by the wrist and there was about five seconds of grappling before Shin determinedly drove his blade into the cutting board of vegetables and used brute strength to bring both his and Drifter’s hands down to chop one single bok choy in half.

“I reckon that broth’s gonna burn up by the time we’re done cutting the vegetables,” Shin hissed. Still trying chop under Drifter’s resisting hold. Another bok choy was cut, albeit unevenly.

And if it was Shin’s goal to make feel Drifter silly then he succeeded. Reluctantly, Drifter let go of Shin’s wrist.

“And the knife you’re digging between my ribs,” Shin prompted through gritted teeth.

Drifter eased up on that too, surprised Shin hadn’t gone for his gun for the stabbing. Seemed like he had a point to prove. Drifter yanked his knife back, letting the blood drip onto his fingers as he held it up. Well, should be nothing Shin’s Ghost couldn’t fix.

“Next time,” he huffed, “Warn a brother before you decide to pull up a knife.”

Shin’s Ghost appeared and got to fixing Shin’s side. Eerie, how Shin didn’t seem all too bothered by the wound. Drifter felt a little insulted.

“Didn’t think you’d like me taking your knife instead,” Shin said.

“You could’ve _asked_ ,” Drifter said, wiping the bloody knife over one of his cleaner rags. After some consideration, he turned to cut some of the meats he had sitting out on the other side of his worktable. A little more iron never hurt anyone.

“Even if I did, would you have let me have it?”

 _Not a chance_. Drifter stabbed into a meat piece with more force than actual cutting finesse. He glanced up, morbidly curious to see Shin’s reaction, but true to his word — _however much his word was worth these days_ — Shin was prepping the vegetables, and even reached over to the burner to lower the heat, since Drifter had partly forgotten about it. “You know what you’re doing?”

Shin glanced at him, frowning, and then went back to looking down at his work.

“Yeah. Watched you the first time. Learned the rest from some vids,” he said, slicing the vegetables with practiced ease. In no time at all he had three little neat piles and started to set the seasonings aside. He peered over at Drifter’s end of the table. “Prefer your way though.”

Drifter didn’t know what to say to that. “What’s the difference?”

Shin’s hands stilled over the table. He shrugged. “Just tastes better.”

Drifter didn’t really want to mull the vague compliment over. Shin liked talking sideways sometimes. Drifter still didn’t trust him, couldn’t trust him with anything, even the food.

He nudged Shin aside, away from the burner and vegetables. “You’re getting in my way.” He gestured to the low table at the ground. “Sit.”

Shin sat.

To Drifter’s annoyance, it was much like being with the Renegade again. Shin kept quiet, kept watch. Drifter could feel his eyes — not _on_ him, but watching at what he was doing. It never occurred to Drifter that Shin was paying attention to how he cooked and not, say, paying attention for the moment Drifter could turn around and shoot him between the eyes.

The stew was nothing fancy. Never was. It did have some nicely cut vegetables though.

“Food’s done,” Drifter said, mostly out of habit. He turned around.

Shin straightened up, and Drifter had a vision of the Renegade at the table, doing the same thing. Only this time he could see Shin’s expression. And it was —

Well, he wouldn’t call it happy. Shin still looked solemn, but his eyes lit up as Drifter set the pot down.

There wasn’t a thermos this time. Shin had brought his own bowl. Drifter regarded it with mixed feelings, most of them rueful, but he scoped some stew into it.

“Thanks,” Shin said, with that same casual air, but then Drifter caught the beginnings of a small grin before Shin ducked his head.

It wasn’t hard to see that Shin was excited. _To eat._ Drifter sat down, feeling like he’d been hit over the head with something. Hell, if there wasn’t any need to feel alarmed. He got like that about food sometimes too.

And Drifter had always wondered if the Renegade really did eat whatever Drifter sent him off with — if the Renegade took a moment to himself to have a bite from his thermos or simply dumped the food the moment he stepped out from Drifter’s alley. It was one of those things Drifter didn’t even want to joke about, and so he never asked.

Now he knew Shin ate with chopsticks and his head down at the table, quiet between bites, and wasn’t one to chat while he did, a hallmark of someone who mostly spent their time alone. He kept one hand cupped around the bowl, unbothered by the heat, and had a stray lock of hair that needed continuous tucking behind his ear to keep from getting in the way. Drifter was halfway to telling him to get a damn haircut but Shin glanced up.

“What?” Shin asked, stopping with the chopsticks part way out of his mouth. The tips pressed against his bottom lip before he lowered them back to his bowl.

“What? Nothin’,” Drifter said, prickly, and watched as Shin shrugged and tucked the strand of hair behind his ear again.

Between the two of them, the meal was a short affair of silent eating. Shin didn’t ask for seconds, and Drifter wasn’t sure what he’d do if he had. _Probably_ give him more. At Shin’s clean bowl, Drifter was overcome by the sick temptation to scoop him some more rice and stew, just to see what he would do.

“You still hungry or something?” Drifter asked, watching Shin lift the bowl to his mouth to get the last of the soup.

“Not really,” Shin said, more or less into his bowl. There was a thoughtful pause. Or maybe a quiet slurp Drifter failed to catch. “Your cooking’s real good. Could never really get it right myself.”

Shin lowered his bowl, brow rising as Drifter dumped another serving into it.

“There’s a lot left,” Drifter explained, careless enough that he had spilled a bit from the pot. “And you might as well since you can’t make it yourself.”

Shin brightened, and Drifter had the sinking feeling that this wasn’t the first time Shin threw him that expression. He just never got the chance to see it with the Renegade.

“Might as well,” Shin said, scooting a little closer to Drifter until their knees bumped against each other.

It was only to return the favor of serving Drifter another bowl. Drifter let him, swearing the stew felt a touch warmer than usual, and settled back down to eat.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> The title is a quote from Ratatouille.


End file.
